Chapter 12
I felt them before I saw them, the watchful, hate-filled stares of the Besklanovvy . They were using the sharp ridges of the foothills to hide from view—or at least, that was their intention.
Small things gave them away, though. The stray loose stones that came free, the shadows that were wider than the ridge called for, and the stillness in the air that kept even the occasional stray bird from singing out.
My men sensed it too. Their postures were stiff, their gazes carefully scanning the hills while we all waited for the inevitable. For the attack.
I had thought that by parting ways with the carriage, we would avoid this, but this particular band of Besklanovvy seemed determined.
They couldn’t possibly be the same one that had been tracking us before. Unless they somehow had access to horses and were able to get ahead of us without us knowing, this had to be a different group, altogether.
Which made no sense. Two large bands of Unclanned this close together?
My gaze drifted to the tiny mass of chaos next to me, wondering if she was the thing drawing them, if word had already spread among the Unclanned that she was heading to Bear.
But why would they care? They had no patriotism, no loyalties to the kingdom that ostracized them, and it wasn’t like she had any food or gold for them.
I studied her rigid posture, the way she held the reins on her horse. At least she wasn’t entirely vapid. There was enough survival instinct within her to sense the danger that surrounded us.
Then Kirill let out a low whistle, the signal that he had seen a weapon drawn.
The princess stiffened even more, her green eyes darting between the men, watching their responses to the warning. She watched as hands casually moved to the hilts of their weapons, all while keeping up their steady stream of conversation, looking for all the world like they had no concerns.
“Have you ever used a saber?” I asked quietly.
I sensed a small bit of hesitation from her before she nodded her head, her auburn brows furrowed thoughtfully.
Cursing internally, I warred with myself, wondering if she was lying, or if the saber just wasn’t her weapon. Between the way she watched the sparring matches and the rumors of the attack before the Summit, I was certain she at least knew how to handle a blade.
Clansmen didn’t just go around lying about women who could fight.
In the distance, hidden beneath the low howls of wind, the sound of metal scraping against stone rang out. More stone came loose from the hilltops, and shadows stretched closer.
In my periphery, I counted nearly thirteen, but there were likely to be more.
I did a quick risk-benefit analysis in the heartbeat it took me to make a decision.
My preferred fighting style utilized both swords, but I was perfectly competent with one. Leaving her unarmed was the greater risk. My men would protect her, but in a melee fight like this, there was always the chance a stray assailant would slip through.
Of course, if I gave her a weapon, there was a decent likelihood that she would turn it on me, but only a negligible risk that she would be successful, given my extensive combat skills.
And finally, there was always the off-chance she would stab herself—but even then, it probably wouldn’t be fatal.
Decision made, I unsheathed one of my prized sabers from my back, placing the hilt into the princess’s tiny hand.
“ Der’mo ,” I muttered under my breath. “Do try to refrain from stabbing me with it, at least until we take care of this.”
Her lips parted, her fingers slowly scraping against my hand as she grasped the hilt.
Warring thoughts raced through my mind, namely ones that had me cursing Iiro, once again, for ever bringing her to that storms-damned Summit. And cursing every last strand of her wild red hair.
If she died here, it would guarantee another war for our people. One that could have been avoided had she kept her arse in Lochlann. An unexpected tendril of concern twisted through me before I stamped it back down. Unacceptable.
No. These Unclanned didn’t pose a real threat toward us. There was no reason to worry, certainly not about her.
A voice echoed off the cliffs, pulling me from my thoughts just as the Unclanned began racing down the hills, indeed far more than the thirteen I had counted before.
While my men formed a protective circle around the princess and me, I busied myself untethering my horse from the princess’s.
The sounds of steel clashing and wood splitting rang out all around us. Nearly thirty former soldiers pressed in on all sides, each of them armed with whatever weapons they had been able to rake together; pitchforks and shovels, spears and some crudely-fashioned swords.
Once Maxim and I were free, I cast a final look at the princess who was still staring at the saber in her hand. If I could end this quickly enough, she wouldn’t need to use it. I charged directly into the melee. The sooner this was over, the better.
I brought my saber down on soldier after soldier. The hillside was soon coated with crimson as we made quick work of the Besklanovvy .
With each slice of my blade, each new life that was spilling out on the ground, I realized something. The only thing tying these men together, other than the color of their blood, was the ‘B’ seared into their foreheads.
Their fighting styles were unique to more than one clan. Bear, most notably, then Bison. And even some from Wolf.
Kirill was at my side, his longsword coming down to cleave a Besklanovvy in half as he tried to break through to the center of the ring. That’s when I realized the final thing they had in common.
It wasn’t just a random attack at all.
Each of these men were desperately trying to claw their way toward one goal.
Toward Rowan.
Two of the Unclanned had broken the line and were headed straight for her. Before I could turn my horse around to race toward her, the man I had been fighting flung himself at me, desperately clawing at my saddle, my reins, my legs, whatever he could grab hold of to try to make me lose my seat.
His rotten teeth were bared, his black eyes furious as he spat curses. I recognized him. The deep set of his mouth and the crooked nose I had broken as a child.
Any sentimentality I might have felt for a comrade I’d been forced to sentence to this life faded as he slammed a rusted kitchen knife down, barely missing my arm.
I didn’t hesitate before breaking his nose again and kicking him off Maxim. My horse nearly tripped as he stamped the man into the blood-soaked ground.
I didn’t care about him, or the man Kirill was currently fileting with his long sword. I cared for nothing except making it to the center of the ring.
The princess was racing away, but not quickly enough. One of her attackers had thrown his pitchfork through the air. His aim was perfect and it would absolutely hit its target.
Der’mo .
Spurring my horse forward, I raced past the princess, bringing my sword down through the wooden handle, before allowing Maxim to trample the man who threw it into the ground.
I caught Rowan’s panicked gaze before movement behind her had me itching to spill more blood. The other soldier who had broken through was coming for her again.
This time, I wouldn’t make it to her quickly enough. But she surprised me when she met his sword with mine, knocking him backwards.
Before he could even regain his footing, she was back, bringing my saber down through his collarbone. I had the brief satisfaction of watching the life leave his eyes before turning to help Igor dispatch one of the Besklanovvy he was still fighting.
The battle was over quickly, the sounds of melee already calming. Some of my men were tending to their wounds, while others were cleaning their weapons.
By the time I looked back at the princess, she was facing the open road before her. Her shoulders were tight, her gaze fixed straight ahead as her horse shuffled impatiently. She was riding astride now, her dress split down the middle. So much for not having to expose herself to the men.
It just reaffirmed that I had been right to tether our horses together earlier, since, even now, after the attack, she had been stupid enough to consider running off.
I used a clean portion of my tunic to clean the blood from my saber while riding up next to her, with the express intent of telling her exactly that when I saw the blood.
It coated her gown and the pale, creamy skin of her leg. It was everywhere. My heart beat rapidly in my ears, probably just from residual adrenaline from the battle.
Sheathing my sword, not even worried if I missed any blood, I reached out to press my fingers against her abdomen where most of the blood was.
“Where are you injured?” I barked, my eyes searching for the wound.
When she didn’t answer, I pressed again. If we didn’t stop the bleeding soon…
“Lemmikki. Where. Is. It?”
“I’m not— It’s not mine,” she said quickly, her voice rough as she watched my hands examining the bloodstains on her thighs.
I relaxed my clenched jaw, immediately removing my hands from her before nodding. Of course she wasn’t injured. Hadn’t I seen the blood spray from the man she killed myself?
While I collected my thoughts, I tethered her horse to mine once again. When I looked back up, her eyes were almost hollow, her fingers pale around the hilt of my saber.
I reached out to take it from her, but she squeezed even harder, her eyes locking onto mine in earnest.
“What if they come back?”
For all of her usual bravado tinged with not giving a damn about her safety, her mask was gone now. She was afraid. Afraid, and a little numb, like she’d seen too much bloodshed in her short life.
Which was something I could understand well.
With a sigh, I gestured toward the blade again.
“Then I’ll give you the sword back, but I can’t very well have you eviscerating me in the meantime.”
There was no smirk, no challenge in her gaze as she handed me my saber. Instead, she silently watched as I cleaned the blood from the blade before sheathing it at my back.
And somehow, that was even worse than if she’d complained about it.